marrying a Vegas stripper, but most of us will have at least one shared drunken escapade that we can recite proudly as proof that weâve lived. Who hasnât woken up groggy and aching, with only a phone number scribbled on a beer mat, a half-eaten kebab, and a smudged ink stamp on the inside of their wrist as clues to the previous eveningâs events?
Deciding not to drink when your friends are still having these adventures is a bit like watching them go for a joyride in a Maserati while youâre desperately trying to keep up on a skateboard. As the second month of my sobriety continues, it seems that no matter how hard I try to get a seat in the car, thereâs just no room. Itâs subtle at first, but slowly things begin to change. A couple of times, people arrange to meet up at the pub for a few drinks, and I only hear about it days later. I think they presume that if I canât drink, I wonât want to be there; Iâm not sure if this says more about their company or mine. When I am invited, they raise their glasses to cheers the group, but donât clink mine because itâs filled with water. Without booze, it feels like Iâm becoming invisible, paling into the background like a cloud in a whitening sky. Some friends disappear altogether, alcohol seemingly the glue cementing our relationship.
Those who do stick around canât hide their puzzlement at my decision. My workmate Cam says to me in exasperation, âWhenâs this all going to stop, Starkers?â as if Iâve lost the capacity for rational thought.
I laugh and say, âWho knows? Maybe Iâll go a whole year and write a book about it. I could call it âMy Year Without Boozeâ.â
His response, lightning-quick, floors me: âYeah, then you could write a sequel and call it âMy Year With No Matesâ.â
I force a laugh. He means no malice, but the comment really bothers me. Am I committing a slow form of social suicide? If this is what people are saying to my face, what are they saying when Iâm not around?
My abstinence is becoming such a focal point that Iâm tired of talking about it. Itâs become my defining characteristic. I know that people are only bringing it up because theyâre interested, but it serves to underscore my difference, my otherness. I start to feel an affinity with vegetarians and vegans, who must face these questions of exclusion daily. Iâm conflicted, oscillating between enjoying the positive physical and mental effects of sobriety and yearning to belong, in a way I havenât experienced since I was an angst-ridden teenager, pretending to like nosebleed techno in a bid not to be shunned by my peers. But Iâm 34 â Iâm old enough to know better. Certainly old enough to feel secure in my choices and confident of my place in a group, regardless of what Iâm pouring into my glass. How hard must it be for younger people to walk this path? When youâre in high school or at university, how do you opt out of a ritual so deeply engrained in societyâs collective sense of identity without alienating yourself from the world around you?
A recent survey conducted by the Foundation for Alcohol Research and Education found that more than a third of all Australians drink alcohol to get drunk. That figure rises to more than 60 per cent in Generation-Y drinkers. Interestingly, 37 per cent of those drinkers said that theyâd tried to cut down their drinking and failed. It makes me wonder if some young people are getting pissed not because they enjoy it, but because itâs easier than living life on the friendship fringe.
This was the case for a young guy I interviewed a few years back. Steve was a promising junior footballer who started drinking at 15 â the average age at which Australians have their first drink â and quickly became known as a party animal. He loved having a few beers; it helped him to relax.
Deciding not to drink when your friends are still having these adventures is a bit like watching them go for a joyride in a Maserati while youâre desperately trying to keep up on a skateboard. As the second month of my sobriety continues, it seems that no matter how hard I try to get a seat in the car, thereâs just no room. Itâs subtle at first, but slowly things begin to change. A couple of times, people arrange to meet up at the pub for a few drinks, and I only hear about it days later. I think they presume that if I canât drink, I wonât want to be there; Iâm not sure if this says more about their company or mine. When I am invited, they raise their glasses to cheers the group, but donât clink mine because itâs filled with water. Without booze, it feels like Iâm becoming invisible, paling into the background like a cloud in a whitening sky. Some friends disappear altogether, alcohol seemingly the glue cementing our relationship.
Those who do stick around canât hide their puzzlement at my decision. My workmate Cam says to me in exasperation, âWhenâs this all going to stop, Starkers?â as if Iâve lost the capacity for rational thought.
I laugh and say, âWho knows? Maybe Iâll go a whole year and write a book about it. I could call it âMy Year Without Boozeâ.â
His response, lightning-quick, floors me: âYeah, then you could write a sequel and call it âMy Year With No Matesâ.â
I force a laugh. He means no malice, but the comment really bothers me. Am I committing a slow form of social suicide? If this is what people are saying to my face, what are they saying when Iâm not around?
My abstinence is becoming such a focal point that Iâm tired of talking about it. Itâs become my defining characteristic. I know that people are only bringing it up because theyâre interested, but it serves to underscore my difference, my otherness. I start to feel an affinity with vegetarians and vegans, who must face these questions of exclusion daily. Iâm conflicted, oscillating between enjoying the positive physical and mental effects of sobriety and yearning to belong, in a way I havenât experienced since I was an angst-ridden teenager, pretending to like nosebleed techno in a bid not to be shunned by my peers. But Iâm 34 â Iâm old enough to know better. Certainly old enough to feel secure in my choices and confident of my place in a group, regardless of what Iâm pouring into my glass. How hard must it be for younger people to walk this path? When youâre in high school or at university, how do you opt out of a ritual so deeply engrained in societyâs collective sense of identity without alienating yourself from the world around you?
A recent survey conducted by the Foundation for Alcohol Research and Education found that more than a third of all Australians drink alcohol to get drunk. That figure rises to more than 60 per cent in Generation-Y drinkers. Interestingly, 37 per cent of those drinkers said that theyâd tried to cut down their drinking and failed. It makes me wonder if some young people are getting pissed not because they enjoy it, but because itâs easier than living life on the friendship fringe.
This was the case for a young guy I interviewed a few years back. Steve was a promising junior footballer who started drinking at 15 â the average age at which Australians have their first drink â and quickly became known as a party animal. He loved having a few beers; it helped him to relax.
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